


Angele Dei (Angel of God)

by serapheim



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Affection, Aftermath, Bromance, Bruises, Catholic, Consequences, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Even Aramis himself, Everyone is angry with Aramis, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of related, M/M, Porthos is angry with Aramis, Prayer, Sexual Content, mentions of abuse, praying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serapheim/pseuds/serapheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis should have known that hiding anything from Porthos would be impossible. Still he thought that a beard and a shadow cast by his hat would make the bruises on his face less noticeable. He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angele Dei (Angel of God)

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the sequel to "Aftermath". I didn't plan this but Porthos wanted to be written.

Aramis should have known that hiding anything from Porthos would be impossible. Still he thought that a beard and a shadow cast by his hat would make the bruises on his face less noticeable. He was wrong.

 

He could tell the exact moment when Porthos’ gaze landed on his face, could read the anger in the darkened eyes and the intent to confront Aramis in the stubborn set of his jaw. But it all had to wait, since they had the duty to perform.

 

Aramis and Athos were stationed at the musketeers garrison for the day, while Porthos was sent to the Palace. He was not very happy about it, since they all preferred to be together, but Aramis felt quite relieved at the absence of his friend, knowing all too well that Porthos would be asking him questions in no time. 

 

Athos was silent during the whole day, giving occasional grunts and nods to Aramis’ quite frankly one-sided conversations. It was not particularly unusual, but Aramis felt that he missed the usual snarky remarks from his older friend. The whole assassination affair had left them all drained. And the burden of the shared secret made them all too aware of each other to the point of uncomfortable tension.

 

Porthos arrived at the end of their shift, sweaty and quite grumpy after having spent the whole day in the sun, wearing the uniform and a heavy cloak. He didn’t say anything, just nodded briskly at Athos and, grabbing Aramis’ arm, steered his friend towards the barracks. 

 

“Well, it is good to see you too, my friend,” said Aramis, struggling quite unsuccessfully in the hold of strong fingers. Porthos’ hand seemed to be made of iron, as he propelled him towards his own rooms. “I would appreciate you telling me what is the matter though,” huffed Aramis. 

 

Porthos didn’t reply. His face was grim and he had that stubborn set of lips, that Aramis knew all too well. He resolved to being manhandled and hoped that he would receive an explanation later.

 

In Porthos’ rooms, after the door was firmly shut and bolted, Aramis stood in front of his friend, waiting for him to say anything. Porthos didn’t. But he walked closer, took off Aramis’ hat and tilted his head to one side with careful fingers. 

 

“Who did this?” growled Porthos.

 

“Why do you think someone did it?” Aramis tried to sound nonchalant. “I went for a walk last night. I was drunk. So I slipped on a puddle of dirt and fell.” 

 

“Yeah, right,” Porthos didn’t sound convinced at all. His gloved hand moved to cup Aramis’ chin, and a thumb stroke over his bottom lip. It made Aramis long for the feel of the fingers on his skin.

 

“That’s exactly how I remember it,” Aramis shrugged, wishing Porthos would drop the subject. But his friend was known to have a tenacity of a fighter dog when he set his mind on something. 

 

“Did you fall on anything else besides your face?” he asked, staring skeptically at Aramis. When no answer came, Porthos said, curtly, “Undress.”

 

Aramis stepped back, dislodging Porthos’ fingers and retreating few steps from his looming presence. It was very tempting to simply do what he was told, but he didn’t like to give in easily. 

 

“I don’t see why I should,” he said cheekily instead “unless there is a particular purpose to this exercise that I am yet not aware of.” He grinned when he saw Porthos’ eyes darken with desire. 

 

They had known each other for over five years, but still every time Aramis managed to catch a glimpse of the whirlpool of emotions that hid behind Porthos’ gruff exterior and white toothed smiles, he felt humbled and amazed at the pureness of it.

 

Porthos always laughed when he was genuinely amused, drank when he was thirsty and loved the life with the abandon of someone who knew the price for it. To be on the receiving end of his desire felt akin to being touched by an angel’s wing - a miracle on its own.

 

“I can think of an exercise or two that I could put you through, seeing as you spent the day slacking at the garrison,” Porthos grinned, and his whole face lit up with that smile.

 

“We were not slacking,” replied Aramis, taking of his weapons one by one and putting them on a table nearby. Porthos was taking off his sword and baldric as well, unbuttoning his jacket, as Aramis continued talking, “We were looking after new recruits.”

 

“Like I’ve said, slacking.” Porthos was already undressed down to his shirt, while Aramis, distracted, still struggled with his long coat. Impatient, the man walked to Aramis and soon two pairs of hands were peeling off Aramis’ clothes.

 

 

Almost immediately Porthos’ lips were on his collarbone, his neck, pressed almost reverently to his pulse point. Aramis had had many lovers who admired him for his looks or his silver tongue, but never had anyone held him with the such gentleness as if he was something precious to be cherished. 

 

It was always like that between them: teasing and friendly banter one moment, and almost angry kisses and strong caresses another. 

 

Aramis was walked backwards to the bed, where they both landed in an awkward tangle of limbs. Porthos’ bed was slightly more narrow than his own, but it had never prevented Aramis from staying for the night, when the desire to be close to a warm body overcame the caution.

 

The kisses bestowed upon his lips were positively heady, so Aramis missed the moment when his shirt was moved up and the bruises on his torso were revealed. He did notice when Porthos’ hands ceased their roaming though. He leaned on the elbows and watched silently, as his friend’s large hands moved carefully over the green and purple spots on his abdomen and sides.

 

“Who did this,” growled Porthos. It was not a question any longer, it was a statement. A demand.

 

Aramis sighed, because he didn’t think he could explain the whole situation to Porthos.

 

“It is nothing, my friend,” he said, trying to cajole Porthos into a kiss instead. It didn’t work, because Porthos didn’t move a muscle. 

 

“It is not nothing. I want to know why you let someone beat you.”

 

“Why do you think I let someone beat me on purpose?” asked Aramis and immediately regretted it because Porthos stared at him with an open anger in his face.

 

“Because you wouldn’t have let anyone to get that close to you to land a punch. Especially, not to your face.”

 

Aramis shrugged, because really there was nothing to be said. He hooked his arm around Porthos’ neck to bring him closer, and this time Porthos let himself be drawn to his lips. They kissed slowly and leisurely, and when Porthos’ fingers started moving over his skin again, Aramis felt his heart soar.

 

Face to face, skin to skin, they moved against each other on a narrow bed, but to Aramis it felt as if they were lying in the meadows of Heaven, so sweet and perfect it was. 

 

Porthos was more impatient than Athos, but at the same time his touch was always gentle, as if he was permanently aware of his strength and was keeping himself in check. He was not so versed in the intricacies of love making as Aramis, but his touch was always assured and he paid attention to his lover’s responses. He both received and offered with equal passion and he did that with such simplicity and honesty that Aramis sometimes felt that his heart might burst with the overpowering emotion.

 

Later, lying tangled together, Aramis enjoyed the touch of Porthos’ fingers, as he moved them up and down his spine in teasing strokes. Aramis felt as if was a cat that was being petted and arched his back a little. That earned him a deep chuckle from Porthos and a short dip of the fingers between his buttocks.

 

They were both spent and tired but even a teasing stroke was enough to have passion stirring in Aramis’ loins. Unfortunately, he was slightly tender from Athos’ not so gentle ministrations the previous night and tensed unconsciously. 

 

Porthos’ fingers stilled. Aramis lied there, almost not breathing and not looking at his friend. Porthos may not be the brightest of them all, but he connected the dots quickly enough. 

 

“Athos, it was Athos,” he growled, and his fingers flexed on Aramis’ arse. “What did you do now, Aramis?”

 

“Me?” Aramis almost felt as indignant as he pretended to be. “Why do you immediately come to the conclusion that I did something?”

 

“Because I know you and I know Athos. And Athos would have never laid a finger on you, unless you totally deserved it or wanted it.”

 

“Or both,” muttered Aramis and then sighed. He had hoped to avoid this conversation at all costs, but now the need to speak the truth was overwhelming him. “I did something very stupid, my friend, and there might be consequences.”

 

“Like what?” Porthos didn't sound worried, mostly curious.

 

Aramis shrugged, although it was slightly difficult while lying on his front and being half draped over Porthos’ chest. 

 

“Like death.”

 

“Nothing new then.”

 

Aramis pushed himself up and stared incredulously at Porthos.

 

“You are not even slightly worried, are you?” he asked, surprised.

 

Porthos shrugged, “We risk our lives every day. What difference yet another  possible danger might make? Besides what is done, is done. You can’t change a thing. Why beat yourself over it.”

 

The open honesty with which it was said caught breath in Aramis’ throat. He leaned to press a hard kiss onto Porthos’ full lips. 

 

“Sometimes your wisdom supersedes that of Athos, my friend,” he breathed out, and Porthos grinned at him, as if he had said something amazing. 

 

When Porthos dozed off, Aramis found himself unable to relax. In spite of Porthos’ easy acceptance, he still felt guilty and worried. Athos’ words about the possible consequences were plaguing him. Even though he had an absolute trust in Athos as their leader to try and weasel them from whatever situation might happen, he felt responsible for Porthos. 

 

It would have sounded ridiculous to anyone, would Aramis decide to share his thoughts on the matter, but he always felt that he had to take care of Porthos. Even though his friend was bigger, stronger, extremely skilled in a fight and had a much thicker skin than the most, he still wore his heart on the sleeve most of the time.  It was there for anyone who would care to look for it. Porthos had the purest soul, very open and childlike at times, and Aramis knew he was prepared to do anything to keep it that way. 

 

The thoughts of salvation and Porthos’ soul caused Aramis to leave the warm embrace and kneel on the hard floor. Naked, as he had been on the day of his birth, he clasped his hands and prayed for his friend, that was lying only an arm’s length away from him.

 

Aramis prayed for Porthos’ soul and for absolution of his sins. He prayed for Athos to finally find peace and to his guardian angel to keep them all safe. He turned to act of contrition and said the divine praises three times. He was going through Angele Dei again, when he felt Porthos’ fingers tangle gently into his hair. 

 

Aramis knew that Porthos was far from a devoted catholic, considering his upbringing and the life he had led before musketeers, and his knowledge of Latin was rudimental at best, so he switched to French, translating psalms as he recited them and coming up with his own variations for the parts that he couldn’t interpret. 

 

It should have felt blasphemous, praying for the soul of his male lover, who also happened to be his best friend, while the man in question lied on the bed naked, petting his hair. It should have, but it didn’t. On the contrary, Aramis felt elated, as if he himself had grown a pair of wings. He envisioned himself as Archangel Michael, armed with a sword and fearless in the face evil.

 

He could not say the words of affection out loud, so poured all of his feelings into his prayers and knew by the occasional twitch of Porthos’ fingers in his hair that his words were understood and appreciated. 

 

// April 24, 2014

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This probably has a million of typos and I apologize for that. I spotted a couple in the part 1 and I will edit it later.


End file.
